I Walk The Line

Ducking. Rolling. Moving.

As they sit on a bench near the Outpost, Agent 3's body twitches with the movements as they taste them in their mind. Each nerve on their index finger lights up as they embrace the metal trigger of the Splattershot— their hair itches to feel the grass on their head as they roll, ears yearn to have the world turned upside down again. Their skin melts into the concrete, becoming rough, soaking up as much ink as possible, moving and changing with each whim. They become the battlefield; they hear every shot, see every splatter of ink, know wholly that their body isn't theirs anymore, but belongs to something much larger than them. The wind changes, and they reach up to fire one final shot on an unsuspecting Octoling, carrying a tiny bag, the last stain on pure, blemished Turf—

Instead, they reach up to itch the splotches of green on their face.

The moon falls behind them, over the empty, uninked turf of the Goby Arena, silver light painting shadows in a murky, dark glow. The sun has yet to show its face. The party last night leaves them rubbing their eyes for purchase against the wave of tiredness, but they know their insomnia won't let them sleep. When Splatfests roll around, Agent 4 likes to come around all the Squidbeak outposts and decorate for the teams they're rooting for. Agent 3— no, they're the Captain now— never really has any time to participate— there's always work to be done, and one day off can lead to— but seeing the ribbons and papier-mache idols and paper streamers seems to cheer everyone up and boost morale. Agents 1 and— Callie and Marie seem to enjoy it too, so Agent 3 can't really complain.

They should be calling themselves 'Captain' by now, but somewhere in their heart, they don't feel like it. Well— they handle all the paperwork related to being a captain, schedule all the patrols, keep an eye out on suspicious areas, and manage each of the petty conflicts that naturally arise from having... 1, 2, 3, 4... 8— no, 5 agents working for them, but that feels like nothing. Nothing compared to the battlefield. Really, someone else would be better suited: they can hardly handle speaking to the new agents. Callie and Marie did most of the heavy lifting when it came to the new Agent 3, anyway. Someone else had that name now. Someone new, plunged into the world of warfare, a century-long battle... someone new to be on their guard constantly, to forget their name, to become an agent forever... to wage a war they didn't start nor ask for...

They can't be thinking like this. They all had so much fun last night; the Splatfests were a morale booster! Battlefield thoughts have their time and place. Besides, they're all gonna go out today and have a little three-versus-three: Agent 4, Agent 1, and Agent 8 on one team, and the Captain, Agent 2, Agent 3 on the other. Pink versus green. Cuttlefish is gonna referee for them. It was supposed to be last night, but somehow, as the night dragged on, Sheldon showed up and talked everyone's ears off, and Pearl and Marina showed up, and their plans got derailed by a conveniently placed turntable set, and... at some point, the Captain found themselves sitting in an full room, completely untouched by the chaos around them. It was an exhibit the Captain wanted to leave untainted by their influence, even in their memory. Any attempt for them to join would've just been more for everyone to worry about. Besides, enjoying it from the ledge of a nearby window was much better than being down there, but... still, the urge to belong to them crept up on them, forcing them outside. Now, they sit here, hopelessly aware the party's over and the sun's about to come up, but they still can't go back inside, lest they disturb everyone getting their rest. Every time they try to think of the layout of the barracks, their thoughts return to the feeling of a Splattershot in their hands— that heavenly melody, playing on loop.

They bury their face in their hands. Battle seems to keep their focus for hours, but the moment they step out of it, it's like they can't even concentrate on what's in front of their face. Marie's suggested box breathing ('in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four...') but all it does is lower their heartrate a little. The motion eventually becomes routine, and it, too, ceases to properly distract the Captain. It's great for catching their breath on the battlefield, but not so much for when the battlefield follows them off of the turf. Convincing themselves they're performing reconnaissance on a future Turf War field is the only thing keeping their thoughts away from the trigger of a Splattershot, and even then, a few moments ago, that wasn't working.

Even during a party, surrounded by the people they love, their thoughts come back to that place. That arena. Battling DJ Octavio. The bass thumping in their chest— the music in their ears! Agent 1— Agent 2— everyone, cheering them on, watching with bated breaths for their success, sitting on the edges of their seats! Dodging, rolling, avoiding— rushing, leaping, lunging— in their hands, a warm Octarian body sits, and the jaws of their mind can't stop tearing at the stuffed cadaver. No matter what or who they fight, that feeling never seems to go away.

... Except—

At just the right moment, they turn around and grab hold of a lithe, wiry wrist. They look up to lock eyes with an Octoling.

Agent 8.

The Captain visibly slumps. Vigilance wasn't the most blessed gift ever; in fact, in moments like these, they wish they didn't have it. It's getting harder and harder to tell who is a friend and who is an enemy, especially considering the latest world-ending fiasco. They give a quick inspection of Agent 8's wrist and mumble something that's meant to be an apology, and Agent 8 just seems to smile at them. That's different, isn't it? Amusement. She looks amused. The Captain blushes, though they don't know why.

They turn back around to face the battlefield, and Agent 8 comes to sit by their side— no, at their feet. 8 sits in a criss-crossed fashion, leaning her head against the bench, hair spilling out from a pink beanie and over the faded maroon paint, looking up at them. The Captain leans down to meet them, resting their elbows atop their knees. Their head naturally falls on their hand, hair just barely grazing the floor. Now, they're on the same level— the Captain smiles, amusement reciprocated. Wherever they go, Agent 8 isn't far behind in any sense of the words. She's great on patrol, always seeming to complement the Captain's 'sit back and observe' strategy perfectly (they swear, she's got their exact 'thinking position' down to the angles of their body). She's amicable and friendly, though she's not much of a speaker. And... she's a great fighter. If there's anyone the Captain could think of to be on their level, it'd be—

The Captain blinks. Shit, they've been holding wordless eye contact with Agent 8.

Agent 8 blinks back.

The Captain blinks, and Agent 8 blinks again.

The Captain tilts their head a little— is this a game?— and Agent 8 hesitates, but tilts it in the same direction.

The Captain slowly swivels their head to look at the field again, and out of the corner of their eye, they can see Agent 8 reciprocate. They try to glance to see if she's looking at the field— and she is, with a smile on her face. The Captain looks back, a strange sensation fluttering in their chest. They've heard rumors that Octolings are nocturnal, but then again, there's rumors about everything. Maybe that's why she's up right now— they should take this into account for the night shifts, but they can't note anything if they don't find out why she's out there at all.

So, they tap Agent 8's shoulder.

Agent 8 turns to look, and they tap at their watch, asking them if they've slept.

Agent 8 shakes their head, but points to the '12' number on the dial.

At the Captain's squint, Agent 8 nods— but that doesn't make sense.

The Captain pulls out their mock schedule. There's a copy posted on the door of their headquarters, but they like to keep a personal copy for these moments. After all, it's not right to lose paperwork. Running the back of their pen down the paper, they see Agent 8 has the afternoon patrol. She signed on for that spot when she joined the Platoon. If she woke up this early (it was 5:00 am when the Captain looked at their watch), she's only getting... well, 4 hours of sleep, which is not nearly enough for an agent to stay alert.

Their head snaps up to look at Agent 8, who is... wielding a pad of their own. It looks like she's writing something down. Writing— poems. Those are poems. Agent 8's... a poet?

The Captain blinks— before they realize it, Agent 8 is looking right at them, catching them in their little act of voyeurism. Agent 8 draws their pad to their chest, scrambling against the bench, paradoxically bringing her closer to the Captain. The Captain reels back as she does so, pushing their hands in front of them to suggest no harm. Her face takes on a bomb-rushed blush, and she scoots a short distance away from the Captain, pocketing the pad in her gray hoodie. Even their reeling has been reciprocated; the Captain's chest tightens thinking of the inches between them, all the secrets of her mind kept locked between leather leaves...

Well, the first step towards learning an enem— a friend's vulnerabilities is to display some of your own to bait them out. That's what they figure, anyway. So, the Captain flips a few pages in their pad and— carefully, covering a few ill-placed drawings of Agent 8— shows her a few doodles of their own. They nudge the pad into her field of view, encouraging her to look after she looks back with wide eyes.

Agent 8 peruses the page with her eyes, taking in each scrap of the Captain's perception. Busts of their crew fill most of the page. Marie, Callie, Sheldon... Agent 4, the new Agent 3... and some scribbled-out drawings of themselves. Before they can take the pad back, it's already in Agent 8's hands. Oh, shit— Agent 8 flips another page! She sits, staring starry-eyed at each sloppy pencil-stroke, murmuring wordlessly at each sketch, and the Captain tries their hardest to sink into the floor. They need to take it away— they repeat this to themselves, beg their limbs to move— but seeing her gentle, calm smile renders them completely immobile and useless. Thus, they suffer another defeat in a string of many: Agent 8 flips to the full-page drawing of herself.

The Captain expects a look of horror, swallowing hard as Agent 8 turns. They cross their arms, trying to squeeze themselves into a speck so they don't have to face the weight of Agent 8's disgust.

But the look on their face isn't one of rejection. No, it's one of... surprise. Well, what the Captain thinks is surprise: her eyes are wide, and there's a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She points to herself, then at the formless creature on the page. The Captain nods, bowing their head in embarrassment. She looks back a few times, and each time the Captain expects nothing short of disgust— but each time, all they get is amazement and joy. She's... amazed. She likes it. The portrait. That portrait. Their worst, most embarrassing work. A scribble that defiles the beautiful, perfect structures of Eight's face. Whatever she sees is a complete mystery to the Captain, but... she's happy.

With a small smile, she hands the pad back to the Captain. Then, she reciprocates— digging it out of her pocket, she hands her own notepad to the Captain.

The Captain handles it gingerly, cradling it softly in their worn, calloused fingers. Sticking their claws between the pages, they open it to the first page—

Haikus.

Haikus about the sea, haikus about Inklings— they flip another page, much to Eight's growing embarrassment— haikus about Octolings— another page— other Octarians... about wanting to go to the beach, about— the hat they're wearing! The Captain shoots Eight a knowing look, and they take the hat off, clutching it in their hands. They continue reading. A person starts coalescing in the Captain's mind: someone with desires, who yearns to do anything besides stare. She wants to be employed. She wants to shop at Sheldon's, wants to peruse the stores in Inkopolis Square, wants...

They flip back and read the words carefully.

I topple from the tower ledge and choke back tears to see the gears Eliminate our hard-won edge.

The Captain's chest aches with true despair, captured only in those words— never conversations, never films, but words, true words—

We're torn apart so many times; I must be bold and keep my hold To make their team pay for their crimes.

A surge of vengeance hits them in the chest. They open their eyes to the middle of a Rainmaker match—

I have to win, I have to win—

Agent 4 to their left, jumping back into the match—

Hey! Help me!—

and Callie trying to steal back the Rainmaker!—

I've got you in my sights now!

Three lands a few well-timed shots with the Charger and pushes forward, and the Rainmaker falls into their hands—

Almost there, almost—

and as the Octo King lurches forward, Agent 3 surges forward, Splattershot in hand—

Just a little more— just a little—!

—and the Octo King crashes to the ground! D.J. Octavio is vulnerable!—

Now!

Before they bring down the battle, they blink again to find words on a page in front of them. Only words.

With a trembling hand, the Captain looks over the next section of the book, written now in charcoal over pink ink. Across the pages, Eight paints in plein air an idyllic, quiet life in Inkopolis: an apartment over the Square, visits to the beach... though she doesn't live that life, the words are so vivid the Captain believes they're sitting in her kitchen, taste-testing a pot of soup, or walking together in the park.

The Captain blinks. A familiar ache crushes their ribcage, and they almost drop the book. A quiet life sounds like a paradise— like dunking their head in cool ice after a rough day of patrols and battles. A place where duels aren't mandatory; where battles are recreational, where an Inkling or Octoling's primary concern is having the freshest gear or the best weapons or the highest rank or their next shift with Grizz... if squids even still work with him, anyway. Their ribs constrict, lungs embraced by cruel iron spikes, puncturing their heart and hollowing them out. The heavenly melody swims between their ears— that fight for life, for everyone's lives, to save them and protect them, so they can live through that paradise, that peaceful life, that happy life—

They want it. They want that life too. More importantly, so does Eight.

The Captain could do nothing but mourn for the lives they had yet to live. Everyday, they both fight for others to live a life that they believe they've traded for that of a warrior— but here Eight is, reclaiming the world after crawling her way up from the depths, making that life hers and relishing each second of it. That life never seemed so attainable before now: it seemed disgusting to want, shameful to pine for. When they did live it, it seemed inconsequential in comparison to the battlefields of the surface, or the tunnels and chambers of the sprawling, dark Metro. Their empty apartment was a cruel reminder of the tasks they had yet to complete, the missions they had yet to go on. When the Captain envisioned the future, all they saw was an infinite stretch of turf to ink. How beautiful the world was now, through Eight's eyes; all of the softness of the glimmers of light on a stained glass window, exposing the underbelly of the animal life could be.

As a consequence for the intensity with which it'd been repressed within them, the ache surged back tenfold, conquering their being and leaving a single tear to muddle the cherished pages of her poetry book. Immediately, they notice it, and shame kicks them in the ribs— how could they soil such perfect words!— surely Eight must be ready to scorn them—

But when they look up to Eight, all they see is forgiveness.

All of the stars of the night sparkle in her eyes. That unreadable face floods with compassion and— a magnetic force brings their eyes to meet again, to look at each other. Words come to their mouth— a strange feeling, but a welcome one.

"Thank you for—" they cough, trying to swallow down the crystals of corrosion from years of silence. Eight lurches to their side to place a hand on their back, and the touch seems to encourage them to push on, albeit in a near-silent whisper. "Thank you for letting me read it. I like your poetry. You're, um... you're a very good writer."

Eight nods with a smile— good. They seemed to have been worried about if the tear was negative or positive, but that worried look melted from their face with the sweet glow of approval.

"Have you—" the Captain asks, and a pang of shame hits them as Eight moves in to hear them— "fought in a Turf War before?"

Eight shakes their head, then holds up one finger.

"Wha—" the Captain coughs again, voice rusty but still working. "One?"

Eight nods.

"If it's what I think it is, it won't do..." the Captain mumbles. "We have one tomorrow. You need practice. I believe in you, but a warmup won't be bad for either of us."

Eight nods again, then takes their notepad back as the Captain closes it and stands. Hand shaking, they steel their resolve and still it, offering it to Eight.

"You... weren't too bad when we fought. But it wasn't me."

Eight stares up at them.

"I want to fight you... as me. Do you understand?" The words are stilted and uncomfortable as they mumble through them, but—

—to their chagrin, Eight gently takes their hand, using them as an anchor to stand.

They expected it to be soft, like the rest of their appearance. But it's rough and warm from years of battle and conditioning, likely at the hands of the Octarians. She seems to like soft things— maybe they could take her to get a manicure one day... then, both their hands could be soft. It wouldn't be the wisest decision, but...

As the Captain looked up at Eight, that look of resolve ensured them it was the right thing to do.

...

Standing together on inked turf, the Captain nudges Eight as they look upon their mutual masterpiece. The Captain feels a smile come to their face as they mumble— "Not bad."

As they turn, their smile blossoms into warmth in their chest. Eight's smiling. She's really, truly smiling— teeth and all. The sun is sparkling off her wide, curious eyes, and she's beaming bright enough to drown it all out.

They'd save the world again to see the sunrise gleaming on the ridges of her face again.

They'd do it all over again.